The Autobot 100
by Jalaperilo
Summary: 100 prompts table attempt based on the entire G1 cartoon Autobot Faction. Warnings are listed on the first chapter, so please read.
1. Dramatic

AN: So, I'm doing a 100 prompt table over on LJ. My focus is not a character, or pairing, but the entire G1 Autobot Faction (Cartoon). Everyone is going to be showcased eventually ( I managed to draw lot's for 66 Autobots and assign them all a random prompt, with enough left over for me to play with) just so it's fair. If you do have a request or a pairing you'd like to see, I'll entertain suggestions but I cannot guarantee that it will get done though.

Prompt table (and other story related nonsense) is over at jalaperilo. livejournal. Table on profile, stories on the main page.

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><p><strong>OVERALL WARNINGS FOR THE ENTIRE DOCUMENT:<strong> M rating. Slash, het, femslash, gen, sticky, sparksex, PnP, wireless etc, none pairings, canon pairings, crack pairings, fluff, angst, humour, crack, death

Basically, anything goes, so read with an open mind.

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><p><span>Prompt<span> –Dramatic

Characters – Elita-1, Optimus

Warnings – T - Two robots discussing their relationship in the middle of a war.

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><p><span>Date Night<span>

The snipers bullet missed her helm by mere centimetres as Elita-1 quickly ducked down behind the half destroyed wall she and their squad leader were currently using as cover. The battle line had shifted quicker than they had anticipated and were now pinned by the Decepticon platoon their section had stumbled upon. Elita-1 was already drafting up the chewing out she was going to give Intelligence for not identifying Decepticon forces in the area. Especially during such a critical relocation.

"It's never a dull moment with you," Elita-1 quipped as she rounded on the wall, rose up an opened fire. The rest of their group were holed up further back. All she needed was suppression fire, but it didn't look like it was going to be forth coming, not at the rate the wall was crumbling under the assault.

"I believe that when we met, I told you that your life would never be boring with me," Optimus replied with a half-hearted chuckle before he himself joined the femme in firing on the enemy. They both got a few shot in before they were forced to drop back down.

"When I pictured the exciting life you promised, this isn't what first came to mind. Funny that," Elita-1 whispered, scanning the area for a way to escape. That night in Maccadams now seemed such a long time ago, when she approached the mech that had been not so subtly glancing in her direction and said _'either stop staring or buy me a cube.'_

"Well how about a nice walk in the park?" Optimus offered, gesturing just beyond the other building. Elita-1 saw the entrance to the now war torn recreation park, with lots of cover to lose the Con's in. The only problem would be getting there. Elita-1 glanced between the mech by her side and their suggested destination and weighed her option.

Stay and wait for their section to reach them, or become moving targets for the Decepticon grunts. Either way, both choices presented a high chance of being shot full of holes.

She threw Optimus a small smirk. "Race you?"

"Loser pays for the highgrade?" he asked, raising an optic ridge.

"You're on."


	2. Alcohol

AN: Second prompt. For those wondering about my other stories – I'm hoping that this'll kick start the ideas again, by helping me get used to writing regularly again, so bear with me, but for now, it's prompt table time.

Prompt table is over at Jalaperilo(dot)livejournal. Table on profile, stories on the main page.

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><p><span>Prompt<span> – Alcohol.

Characters – Inferno, Red Alert

Warnings – T - Drunken behaviour and nonsense derived from it.

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><p><span>Moon Shine<span>

With a hand braced against the corridor wall, Inferno narrowed his optics and focused on the end of said corridor with set determination. He had been staring at the end wall for a breem, the right turn at the junction would take him to his quarters. He just had to walk down there, turn right and walk to the door.

He could do this. He could totally do this. He nodded to himself, it was now or never. He pushed himself away from the wall and began to walk at a steady gait and in a steady line as well. Or what he believed to be a straight line. Definitely straight. The wall hadn't come crashing into him yet. Good old wall.

He was already half way along when a sharp "Inferno!" jolted him from his concentration. He turned sharply and with grace. The wall suddenly hit his back and he was slumped against it. Trust the wall not to stay where it was supposed to.

Inferno's optics came to rest on the familiar frown of his bestest buddy, Red Alert. The other mech had his arms crossed over his chest and his frown deepened to the cutest scowl Inferno had ever seen anyone do.

"Hey, Red!" He called out, smiling and waving at the smaller mech. Sharp blue optics narrowed further as he walked up to the fire engine. Inferno's smile grew more. Sure, he had been trying to avoid the security director by walking a different route, for some reason, but now that he was here, Inferno was happy.

"Are you... overcharged?" Red Alert asked quietly. Inferno snorted and waved a hand in front of him, dismissing the thought.

"No. No. Well, no. I mean, not _over_ charged. Just... charged. A bit above charged," Inferno said. It didn't look like Red Alert believed him. Such a skeptic.

"A 'bit above' charged, huh? On home-brewed high-grade I presume. Inferno, you know that foul stuff is dangerous," Red Alert said in the usual clipped tone he got when he was in official mode. Inferno wrinkled his nasal ridge and shrugged his shoulders, leaning further against his buddy, the wall.

"No harm t' anyone."

"It is contraband, I believe. It's called _illegal_ high-grade for a reason, and we don't allow illegal high-grade on base!" Red Alert snapped, unfolding his arms and pointing at Inferno for emphasis. Inferno tried to focus on the finger, but his optics were blurring the image. He reached out and grabbed Red Alerts hand, distracting him mid-rant.

"Aw Red, don't be like that. We all need t' relax a bit. No harm. It's just high grade, y'know, _sweet oil for sour mechs_," he said, reciting an old adage, still holding the other hand, "an' anyway, there ain't no legal high-grade, so it's all illegal!" The logic was flawless. Inferno should debate more often. The Lamborghini was still frowning, now almost pouting at captured appendage. Inferno just had to laugh at the face, his buzz still kicking even after the downer of being told off.

"Fine, I admit it. I've bin sipping th' sweet stuff and am as overcharged as a seeker on manoeuvres day. Put th' cuffs on me and throw me in th' brig!" Inferno said loudly, dropping the hand he was holding and thrusting out his arms, ready for the stasis cuffs.

Red Alert just looked at him, expression mixed. Inferno could have sworn that the chief was wanting to smile, but absolutely couldn't. He finally sighed and pushed Inferno's arms down.

"Let's... You're a mess. We need to get you out of public view before you make a scene," Red Alert said with yet another long suffering sigh.

"Yeah, wouldn't want th' security director seein' this," Inferno dropped down to a whisper, leaning towards Red Alert, "I hear he has camera's everywhere."

Red Alert snorted. He took Inferno's arm and pulled him away from the wall before starting to walk down the corridor at a pace that suited the slightly staggering fire truck. At least the wall was now back to its original position and not knocking into him.

"How'd ya get th' wall to stay?" he asked. Red Alert gave him a quizzical look.

"We're on good terms," he replied lightly, turning left at the junction.

"Ma room's not this way," Inferno said, looking behind him. Red should know that!

"I know. We're going to my quarters. You'll no doubt be utterly pathetic once the charge wears off. Might as well have you where I can keep an eye on you," the red and white mech said, still leading his friend along the corridor.

Inferno couldn't help the goofy smile that crossed his face. Not only was Red making the wall stay still, but he was being nice. Inferno shifted his arm out of the others grasp and draped it over his shoulders, slightly leaning his weight onto his friend. Red Alert shifted, and brought his arm up to wrap around Inferno's waist.

"Red, you're ma favourite!" He announced, hugging the Lamborghini closer. Red Alert rolled his optics.

"You're favourite what?"

"Ma favouritest in th' universe! More than the wall, more than cameras, more than high-grade. Even more than the wall!" Red Alert couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped him. Inferno beamed, swaying slightly. The smaller mechs grip tightened on him, steadying them both.

They reached the security director's quarters and soon Inferno was dumped on Red Alert's berth. He began to mumble something, but as soon as his back was on the surface, he was sprawled out and recharging.

Red Alert shook his head and put the data files he had been bringing with on the desk. It was a good think he had already decided to pull an all-nighter. He looked at his friend and smiled. The things he did for his 'favouritest'.


	3. Terrible

AN: Third! Now with added angst. I originally thought of keeping these at 500 words or below, but that has been impossible. Some will be short. Hopefully. In the mean time, medic angst!

Prompt table is over at Jalaperilo(dot)livejournal on my profile page.

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><p><span>Prompt<span> – Terrible

Characters – First Aid, Ratchet, Wheeljack

Warnings – T? Mention of mechanical injuries.

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><p><span>Heal thyself<span>

First Aid had panicked. He dropped his head into his hands and uttered a ragged sob, the feeling of guilt roiling his tanks. He steadied his intakes, trying to calm himself but it was no use. He kept replaying his memory files, involuntarily dredging up the images, feelings, thoughts. He thought he had been prepared for what was to come, but no amount of research or anecdotes or flat out gratuitous description could have described the real life horrors of a mass-casualty event.

The Autobots had been called into battle at the beginning of the cycle. Not even three groons later, the troops were back, all sporting different types and severity of injury. The medbay had been prepped and they all had been assigned their stations. He was triage. By the textpad, he had to assess the mech's injuries and assign them a rank of 1 – 4, or A, B, C or D, as Ratchet had morbidly put it: _'Absolutely necessary, Best not wait too long, Can fragging wait and Done for.'_ Swoop had offered RWHP – Ratchet, Wheeljack, Hoist and Primus. Once the rank was assigned with the application of colour coded tape, they would go through the casualties systematically, patching temporarily until there was no longer any life threatening injuries. Simple.

Until they were there in front of him. Huffer, in stasis lock, had already been hauled over to the crash berth, as had Air Raid. The majority. He looked them over. Most were threes. Walking wounded, in no danger of offlining. A few tears, armour missing, shattered optic, crushed hand. He could see that clearly. The others. Shattered shoulder strut oozing energon steadily, three or two? Irregular oxygen intake coupled with a laser wound to the chest, two? None responsive mech, cracked helm, no internal energon rupture, one or two?

All First Aid could think was who deserved treatment more, and did he have the right to choose that? He looked down at the tape in his hand. Yellow and red. Who deserved what? What if he taped up Streetwise with a yellow, only for him to need immediate care? What if one of the greens suddenly offlined? Would he have to use black? All he could think about was colours, numbers, letters. How could they reduce these mechs to four little categories?

"We have a freeze," Wheeljack called out behind him, followed by a curse by Ratchet, and a bark of his name. First Aid turned, dragging his optics away from the tape to face the medic.

"Tag them and start on the twos!" The medic shouted at him from his position on the other side of Huffer. First Aid just stared at his mentor, he went to say something, but had no idea what. He realised his hands were shaking as he clung to the tape. He felt something horrible welling up inside himself.

"I... can't..."

Ratchet cursed again, calling for Wheeljack to take over from him. The CMO marched up to the Protectobot, grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him to his office. He shoved First Aid in there before slamming the door.

That had been groons ago. The noise from the main bay had died down now, and the office was eerily quiet. Only the hum of his own systems and that of the terminal on Ratchet's desk stopped silence reigning.

The door opened with a quiet whoosh of air behind him. First Aid knew for certain that it was the CMO. The Protectobot had been sat there for so long, dreading facing Ratchet, that he couldn't even react. He had hopelessly wished that one of his brothers would have come to rescue him.

The mech behind him stood at the entrance for a long moment before moving. In his peripheral vision, the young mech saw Ratchet pull a second chair up in front of him before sitting, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knee, fingers interlaced. He looked directly at First Aid. The weight of the look made First Aid curl in on himself. He tried to meet the others gaze, but had to turn his head away. So much shame.

"Aid," Ratchet sighed. That one word opened the gates.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to lock up. They were just... there. They were all hurt. Who am I? To decide who gets treatment and who waits? They're all hurt. I couldn't decide. I'm sorry," he knew, dimly, he was babbling but couldn't help it. He was ever so upset, and he needed to make Ratchet understand he was sorry.

The older medic placed a hand on first Aid's forearm, to stop his torrent. First Aid finally looked up at his mentor. The faceplates were set in a grim frown, but there was gentleness and understanding in the lines as well. That made it more unbearable. Soft blue optics kept a steady gaze into First Aid's own visor. He hung his head, a small sob escaping his vocaliser. He had never felt so weak. So pathetic. So undeserving.

He heard Ratchet move his chair before an arm made its way around his shoulder, pulling his closer, rubbing a hand soothingly up and down his upper arm. He exhaled sharply and turned, wrapping his arms around Ratchet's middle, burying his face in his chest. The chassis against him was warm and solid. The smell of oil and energon and scorched metal was oddly comforting on the older mech. They remained like that for what must have been a good couple of breems.

"It's hard. To decide who is the most deserving. I'd like to tell you it gets easier, but that would be a lie. That you learn how to tell who needs treatment the most and how to manage the casualty flow. Doesn't happen. One day you'll be faced with two mechs, both needing immediate care, and you'll have to choose who gets to live and who dies. It's not fair. Monumentally unfair on us, but it's an inevitable part of our job," Ratchet's voice was low, steady and final. There was experience colouring the words he spoke. The words, tone grim yet caring, washed over First Aid as he continued to huddle against Ratchet.

"How do you live with that?" he asked, his voice meek and pathetic. How can anyone function with that weight upon them?

"You get past it, or you let it consume you. No one thinks less of you. We're in the middle of a war; it's a pit of a way to learn," Ratchet said, harsh and to the point. He never minced words in everything else, why would he hide true meaning in pleasantries and kind words now? First Aid was thankful for that. It showed that his mentor thought more highly of him than he thought he deserved.

"Did you freeze up?" First Aid asked, pulling away slightly, shifting so his head was on Ratchet's shoulder. He wasn't ready to give up the comfort of the other mech just yet.

"No, but I had more experience of injuries beforehand. The worst for me was the first time I lost a patient, though. Surgical rotation. The mech had been horrifically injured. There just wasn't enough time to stabilise him. His spark extinguished right in front of me. I lost a lot of recharge over that," Ratchet confided. It was short, clipped, and informative. Obviously it still affected the CMO enough to not want to dwell on it. First Aid could understand that.

He pulled back from the embrace to look at Ratchet. He felt himself relax, now that he realised that he wasn't alone. All the medical team must have done this so many times. Have experienced the same thoughts, feelings, doubts. It was a terrible, yet freeing thought. Maybe he could do it. One cycle at a time. One patient at a time, knowing that people survive through the experience.

"Ready to go back out there? We need your help with the secondary repairs," Ratchet said, standing from his chair with a light groan, shaking his legs from imaginary stiffness. He held out a hand to his young apprentice. First Aid regarded it for a moment before taking it lightly, nodding. He'd try.

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><p>AN: Yeah, First Aid is being really harsh on himself, but don't worry. Give him a bit of time and he'll get his confidence up again and get out of his emo phase. He's young, he'll grow out of it.<p> 


	4. Panic

AN: Here's another, more light-hearted piece. It's been languishing on my comp for the last two weeks cause I found out that I'm really, _really_ bad at writing explosions.

Prompt table is over at Jalaperilo(dot)livejournal on my profile page. I'm also on twitter if you wanna get in touch: Jalaperilo

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><p><span>Prompt<span> – Panic

Characters – Wheeljack, Prowl, Perceptor, Jazz, Brawn

Warnings – PG

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><p><span>A loose transistor<span>

"Wheeljack."

"I honestly don't know what to say," the inventor said in response to the thousands of questions that Prowl had managed to convey in the simple utterance of his designation. He looked back to the datapad in his right hand, then to the detonator in his left, then back to Prowl and shrugged.

"We did not factor this into our calculations nor our experiment, because, well, it has never happened before," Perceptor offered, transforming out of his microscope mode and turned from the test range.

"Yeah, it was kinda a given." The two scientists looked at each other. Wheeljack, looking a little worried, shrugged again and Perceptor took on a look of contemplation, tapping a digit against his lip component.

"The one time we wanted an explosion, and old 'Jack can't make with the boom," Jazz said, chuckling to himself as he approached the others. They were all still behind the mound of dirt, metal and transparent aluminium that composed the makeshift blast shelter at the supposed safe limit of the test range. Prowl's glare at Jazz silenced the bot, who took on an entirely fake look of solemn contemplation.

"I can make with the boom. Just not always on schedule," Wheeljack shot back crossly before scratching his helm. "This has never happened to me before. I am at a loss for words. Brawn?" Wheeljack asked, turning to the minibot, who was himself reading through a datapad.

"Not much I can add. All I do it set the damn things and wire them up. And I know I've wired them correctly, before you ask. The connections are flawless," Brawn supplied in a surly manner, crossing his arms in an invite to just dare say otherwise.

"The chemical composition and overall quality of the explosives were completely fine when I examined them on the last inspection. I do not believe that anything would have truly effected the explosives themselves, let alone all at once," Perceptor contributed, taking Wheeljack's datapad and examining the content himself.

"Might be the blast caps? Or the lead lines? The wiring?" Wheeljack said, wringing his hands and trailing off into a mumble.

"I told you, my wiring is perfect. I've been blowing stuff up since before you were blowing up academy projects," Brawn said indignantly.

"There is more wiring than the blast caps! Might be a simple break in the circuit. Primus knows where that would be," Wheeljack was starting to sound a little edgy now.

"So this leaves us with an active range and the inability to examine the compound due to live explosives. What now?" Prowl asked, his left pede tapping ever so slightly. The tension in the air was continuing to condense around them and even he was feeling a little highly strung.

"Worst come to worst, we could always try to detonate the material with a high velocity, incendiary projectile," Perceptor offered.

"What, shoot the charges?" Prowl asked, incredulity dripping from his words.

"That would hopefully ignite some of the charges, if not all. Theoretically it would leave us with a less dangerous but much more volatile situation." Prowl was uncertain, but he thought that he heard a hint of desperation within Perceptor's voice.

"Fine. Last resort. I need other idea's before I entertain that solution though!" Prowl snapped.

"Word from Prime. The humans are asking where the boom is," Jazz cut it, signalling to the side of his helm to reiterate the communiqué.

"Tell him we're experiencing technical difficulties," Prowl shot back peevishly. Jazz just grinned and continued his internal call. The SIC turned back to the team, who were still bickering over variables that could have gone wrong. "I need answers and I need them now."

"Well, ruling out the wiring," Perceptor gave Brawn a measured look, "the caps or fuses or lead lines, the material itself, the only thing left is the detonator."

Wheeljack looked down at the control box in his hand. Both the orange charge light and the red fire light were still on, indicating that the little light and sound show should have gone off. He frowned down at the device.

"I don't see how. Unless one of the components came loose," he mumbled as he shook the box.

There was a sudden flash of light. Meer astroseconds later, the shelter suddenly rocked with the impact of the shockwave from the detonation of the explosives. The structure rattled and creaked as the ground shook with the force of the explosion, causing all within the shelter to flinch, instinctively raising their arms to protect them. Wheeljack himself felt the violent vibrations rattle his plating and jolt his spark. The blast lasted seconds, but the noise carried on past them and carried on over the rocky terrain, towards Prime and the humans at the second observation post.

Wheeljack lifted his helm to look out on the range. Prowl had barely flinched, and was looking out towards the destruction. A massive plume of dust and debris spreading out slowly, expanding and creeping towards them. Jazz whistled, a trick he'd picked up from Sparkplug as he watched the dust cloud. Perceptor was totally absorbed in the feedback data that was streaming though his consol.

Prowl held a digit to the side of his helm. "Target has been confirmed as destroyed. Finally," he added the last part slyly, shooting a side long glance at the team. Wheeljack gave him a small smirk.

"That 'boom' enough for you?"


	5. Pauses

AN: Have I told you I love the Special Ops bots? I freaking love them. In my head, they're hilarious and awesome. I just imagine them, when not on assignment, to just troll the slag out of each other both during training exercises and when they all just hang out. Hell, I have all three of them on my desk right now, posed like Charlie's Angels. Expect more from the three of them in the future.

Prompt table is over at Jalaperilo(dot)livejournal on my profile page. I'm also on twitter if you wanna get in touch: Jalaperilo

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><p><span>Prompt<span> – Pauses

Characters – Mirage, Jazz

Warnings – PG

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><p><span>Spies like us<span>

Being stuck in a pipe gave you a lot of time to think. Mirage was no stranger to waiting. Being the infiltration expert he was, he spent his career waiting for the perfect moment, the right opportunity that balanced delicately between success and failure. It had done wonders for his patience and gave him time to think and observe his surroundings. To notice small details, to be able to read a mech thoroughly and be able to know exactly what they were going to do before they themselves knew.

Still, it was less than the thrilling life his comrades seemed to believe it to be. They seemed to have this glamorised vision of exciting death-defying escapades that shocked and thrilled all. Running from exploding buildings, daring escapes with sensitive information, exotic disguises and infiltration. It was all one big adventure for them that he had the fortune to live.

The reality was starkly different. There was spark stopping instances, Mirage could agree, but not in the adrenaline thrill they believed it to be. The terrified praying that the mechanoid on the other side of the door doesn't decide to enter the room and find him processor deep in their mainframe. A target instantly seeing though a disguise on the scarce occasions he went undercover. A signal being tracked and traced, leading to a ten megamile slog through the slagpipes under Kaon to escape. Executing defenceless family members to extract information from other. Things that made the energon freeze in his pipes if he thought about it for too long.

All of that was only a small part of the job. The rest of time was decidedly more boring. Being trapped on the Nemesis for eight cycles because they just didn't raise the bloody tower. Even the Megatron and Starscream show lost its amusement after a while and he amused himself with spooking the sentries. There was also the time he spent wandering around the northern Russian expanse of the Taiga with Bumblebee, trailing Decepticon activity, only to find the Insecticons feasting on the trees.

And then there was standing in a pipe. It was wide enough for Mirage to crouch down in, but if he leaned too far, he'd hit the side. He wondered how long any of the others would last in the same condition. Definitely not the three joors he'd been there, that was for certain. And anyway, he thought, what were they even complaining about? He wanted to tell them that standing on a battlefield getting shot at and fighting an enemy face to face was more exciting than his job. Mirage would have even taken a patrol shift over being shoved in a tube.

The Special Ops team had found out that humans also suffered from the same delusions as the other Autobots in regards to their own intelligence operatives, even crating fictional operatives to embody all the sexy stereotypes they held. Jazz and the team had researched Earth style espionage, _real espionage_, which had its differences, but also had remarkable similarities to their own practices, even adopting some practices and terminology. He was particularly fond of _'wetworks'_ and they had dubbed Nautilus a _'honeypot'_, to the Earth teams great amusement.

Mirage finally heard movement on the other side of the metal enclosure. His sensors tuned into the movements. It sounded like two mechanoids, walking with quiet treads, but not quiet enough to be purposefully sneaking around. He next heard slow scrambling sound from the side of the tube, no doubt one of them was climbing up the ladder. The hiss of the lid permeated the tube as the once muffled sound was suddenly clear, the light of the training room casting little light in his tomb.

"How nice of you to join me. I was beginning to think you had forget that I was here," Mirage said the moment he saw Jazz's faceplates, grinning down on him. He received a shrug from his commander.

"I would have been here sooner, but there was an _As the Kitchen Sinks_ marathon on," Jazz said, still grinning. Typical Jazz. Sometimes he could just throttle the mech, if only he could sneak up on him, rank be damned.

"And you left me in here for that pedestrian, unoriginal, melodramatic excuse for a broadcast?" Mirage said bitingly.

"Melinda's bonded found out that he isn't the creator of their sparkling. Then there was a plane crash," the saboteur said, as if that justified the entire situation.

Mirage gave the Porsche a stony glare as he leaned back, to rest against the steel of the tube, only to receive a sharp electric shock. He yelped and stood up straight, throwing a glare up at Jazz.

"You haven't turned it off?" he snapped. Jazz shrugged and smiled apologetically.

"Oops. Forgot. 'Bee, shut it down!" The saboteur called, looking off to one side before looking back down at Mirage, smiling. "You can come out now."

Mirage let his shoulders sag. Just another cycle in Special Ops.


End file.
